


The War of Twelve Clans

by crazywisdom (orphan_account)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bear with me on this one lol, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 12:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11829021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crazywisdom
Summary: Lexa kom Trikru, the newly-crowned Commander, tries to forge a coalition and ends up adding fuel to the fire of the war. Clarke finds herself inexplicably stuck, watching the young revolutionary and would-be lover of hers navigate the backstabbing politics of the Grounders.





	The War of Twelve Clans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who commented--it's a bodge job I had it on Word, but there are only minor changes for the sake of future changes(?) which I have plotted not written. Long story short, I kind of deleted it (I think I nearly orphaned it by accident lol) but here we go. This one's a lil' weirder than Knife Edge if you read that one (if you didn't you may ignore this lol) but it is primarily centred on Clarke (I'll try not to get carried away with Lexa...I just enjoy writing her too much). And Clarke trying to "fix" stuff and her essentially gettin' told by the universe.  
> NB: I call Costia "Lady" because like in Game of Thrones, she dies? *confesses sins*

 

Nothing.

Once upon a time, this near impenetrable fortress had imprisoned hundreds of Grounders, and her friends. It had been the home of destruction, housing missiles and the dastardly Wallaces. Now, there was nothing left save for ashes, unworkable machinery...

Clarke took a few steps forwards, her eyes narrowing.

Was that a _laptop_?

Jesus, those things were hard to kill. She mentally noted it was not a Macbook. Instead, she took a few steps forward in trepidation, noting the flash drive seemingly undamaged from the blast in the grass. When Raven and Bellamy and the others had scouted this area, they hadn't scoured it well enough. It was that, or someone had placed these items here on purpose. The thought of Nia scattering USB sticks was one that made her laugh in the solemn, overcast backdrop.

"You are unwise to go alone," Lexa had said from her throne, backed up by nods from Indra and Titus. "I should ride with you."

"With all due respect—I'd like to..." Clarke heaved a sigh. She did not want to offend Lexa in front of her ambassadors.

"They were your people." Lexa stood up, and Clarke waited for someone—someone like Titus—to chastise her for the audacity. _Polis is being hospitable for your sake, Sky Girl,_ she could hear in Titus' voice. But as she dared to look up with one eye, Lexa's smile was soft. Nothing about her tone nor her expression was cutting, and her gloved hand motioned slowly for Clarke to lift her head up. "I can respect that. But if you do not come back after sundown, I will send an envoy for you. Terski will spearhead it, so you will recognise him."

Clarke had bowed before her, and said, " _Heda_ ".

It was not long before Lexa shuffled down the steps and ducked her head so they were level. "I am not your _Heda_ ," she whispered.

"Yes," Clarke said. "Yes, you are."

And so Clarke had been entrusted with one of Lexa's favourite palfreys, Sunset, and left with one of her named longswords too—Peacekeeper. _An apt name for its peacekeeping owner_ , she thought with a sense of pride, and had been seen off with a melancholy wave at the Polisian gates. Jona took off her helmet and knelt as she trotted past, and Aden, who'd only just returned from hunting game in the woods, dropped to his knees before her as well. The band of boys he was with teased him for it, until he said something to shut them up and they all knelt clumsily too. Clarke grinned, but it was Lexa's expression she could not shake from her mind. Lexa behaved as if she'd never see Clarke again, but then she wondered what had happened the last time she'd let someone she loved ride through the gates on a seemingly safe mission.

Clarke swallowed thickly. _I am not Costia, and Costia is not me._

_I'll come back with my head._

Here she was, safe and sound, amidst a pile of ashes. Cage Wallace could not hurt her and her friends anymore, and he could not poison any more of Lexa's soldiers with RED. She'd seen first-hand what it had done to Lincoln, and she'd never truly been able to shake the thought from her mind. Her mother had been better at that—she was a true medic—she could take a case, and then move on straight away. It wasn't out of callousness; only professionalism. Clarke's desire to fix things, even when scolded by Lexa before her fight with Roan, still raged strong within her. If she could've killed Ontari when she had the chance, she would've. Now the North stood on the brink of war with a Nightblood spearheading their claim to the jagged throne of Polis, and Lexa was... _calm_.

How could she let fresh meat like Aden wander around the woods when he was next in line to the throne, clearly? Why was she so devoted to the idea of keeping Clarke safe? What was there in this goddamn world she hadn't seen already?

 _Well, that'd be a laptop, for starters_.

Quite excited at the prospect of being able to watch an old football game, she flipped the laptop open and jammed the "on" button. It took a while for the operating system to boot up, as if nobody had used the device in years, and then she smacked the USB drive in.

Clarke wasn't an expert with computers, but the ten windows that popped up, that prompted other windows to pop up with gibberish writing itself then writing itself then writing itself _was not a good sign_. Clarke stared at the nonsensical letters writing themselves, quite aware she was not even touching the keyboard. She had half a mind to shut the lid down, but her heart thumped in curiosity. The quicker the letters sprouted up, the more ferocious she found her curiosity, which had been well and truly piqued. Leaning forwards, she squinted to make sense of the code—to no avail.

Was this what Raven was interested in? If she was here, would she be able to decipher this nonsense?

Was this the legacy left by the rogue Ice Nation assassin? Had he planted this piece of idiocy to trick everyone into a state of panic?

Clarke felt beads of sweat trickle down her forehead, her heart slamming against her ribcage. Panic had well and truly set in, and she could do _nothing_. As a last-ditch effort, she yanked the flash drive from the laptop, but the code on-screen kept writing and writing and writing. What had the Mountain Men been developing? Holed up for so long post-apocalypse, what kind of strange scientific experiments had they left imprints of behind?

"This is some _Ghostbusters_ shit," Clarke grumbled to herself as she slowly rose, backing away ever so slightly. There was a gust of wind behind her and she swivelled around, unsteadily wielding Peacekeeper. From afar, tied up to a tree, Sunset bared its teeth and kicked loudly against the stump.

It did _nothing_ for Clarke's rackety nerves. In the stone-cold silence, save for an occasional wisp of air blowing, she could hear her horse panicking and neighing over nothing. _This_ really _is some Ghostbusters shit._ The thought did hit her, as irrational as it was. _What if there actually is a ghost?!_ With clammy hands, she sheathed Peacekeeper. If a ghost was coming to kill her, a sword would be of no use.

Perhaps it was Lexa's belief in the spirits and her jeopardising it. She'd promised internally she'd return to Polis with a head, and to be honest, she was harbouring some serious doubts about that now. Months she'd spent in an empty forest, but nothing scared her quite like an abandoned laptop, delicately jammed in the middle of nowhere. _How convenient,_ she thought, and as Clarke-like as she could, decided to carry on as if there was nothing to fear. She _was_ the Commander of Death, after all...

 _Right_? She tried to give the spirits a nudge.

Another _whoosh_ , almost like the tapes her and Wells used to watch of the basketball they played on Old Earth—a swish of the net as the ball sunk through. This time, Clarke tripped over her own feet, groaning as she smacked her head. She was partially thankful she was alone. Indra would've had a field day laughing at her incompetency.

A flash of red.

A red dress.

A red _dress?_

Clarke blinked hard, feeling bile rise in the back of her throat. Her entire world was spinning, as if she'd just downed a flagon of strong Southern wine. Desperate feet endeavoured to grapple her onto her feet as her eyes grew heavy. She wanted to be sick. She must've eaten something strange at breakfast, but then again, what was so strange about bread?

"Lexa..." Her words were raspy, from the back of her throat. It felt as if she'd ushered them through cracked lips, like her name was an oasis in the desert. She remembered what Lexa had said on the steps. " _Heda_..."

 

* * *

 

"...That's right, that's right...it's _Heda_ now..."

Faint murmurs in the distance caused Clarke's ears to prick up. She was no longer in the wastelands of Mount Weather's destruction. Dazedly, she blinked the blurriness from her eyes and stared upwards. She was in some kind of hut, and the smell was overpowering; it wasn't bad, but it was pungent with herbs, herbs and—well, more herbs. Mouth parting slightly for air, Clarke was aware of the crackling dryness of her throat and her overwhelming desire for water—just a drop. Just as her sight returned to her, so did her sense of hearing. Someone was grinding a mortar and pestle to the right, and with any strength she could summon, she lifted her head curiously.

"Easy." It was a girl, who could not have been any older than her. Dark, sun-blessed skin and perfectly curly hair, full lips and brown eyes filled her vision. She smiled down at Clarke, gently ushering her back down. _By the gods,_ Clarke wanted to say, _you're beautiful_.

The girl offered her some water, taking care to raise the back of Clarke's hand as gently as she could. The few drops felt like a lifetime of relief.

_I've died. I've died, and this is my guardian angel._

Another realisation hit her. _I haven't gone to hell_.

"We found you, smack-bang in the middle of the forest," the girl said in perfect, Old English. "You kept muttering ' _Heda_ ', which is timely, because she is only newly-crowned." A soft, slightly melancholy smile tugged at her lips, up into a sideways smile. "I think you must've hit your head. You weren't responsive. I've made you two poultices. The lavender one, you may take to bed."

"Bed," Clarke repeated thickly. She hadn't quite made it past _newly-crowned_.

"Our bed," the girl said good-naturedly. She gestured to the other woman in the room—world-worn, broad-shouldered and somewhat distrustful. If this girl was a rose, then the other woman—Clarke assumed it was her mother—was surely the thorn. "We've discussed this, Mama."

"You have no affiliation," Mama said warily. "We have no idea which clan you hail from."

"I don't—" Clarke stopped herself, swallowing. "My parents are...not here. I know the woods."

"Trikru?" the girl supplied helpfully.

" _Silly girl_ ," Mama lectured her daughter in Trigedasleng beyond Clarke's understanding. " _How can she hail from the woods yet not speak a word of Trigedasleng? She is not of our People._ "

The girl was somewhat more diplomatic. "My mother does not trust you," she said frankly, and this did not surprise Clarke. "She is suspicious you do not speak Trigedasleng. Admittedly, so am I." Clarke was slightly envious of the girl's perfect English. "But the Northerners have their own language, and it is not of Old English. Everyone speaks Old English—well, the educated do. So you must be educated."

"My mother was a healer," Clarke said.

"Oh?" The girl pressed the poultice against the back of Clarke's head, and, _shit_ , _that really_ does _hurt._ She must've fallen—somewhere—somehow. The words _newly-crowned_ still rung loudly in her ears. What did that mean? Lexa had fallen? She didn't dare ask yet; she didn't want to know the answer. "So what is your name?"

Clarke was instantly defensive. "What's yours?"

The girl laughed. "How about, until you can trust me, I call you Gold and you call me Lady?"

"And I call your Mama 'Mama'?"

"If it pleases you, Gold."

Clarke got the impression Lady was enjoying this far too much. The mirth in her eyes was not of malice. In fact, the girl radiated so little malice that Clarke wasn't entirely sure she was capable of it. She'd crafted poultices for a random stranger. She'd allowed her a warm bed and a home despite Clarke's prickly first impressions. _I really need to work on that_. And as Lady gushed on about the feast tonight at the heart of Polis, Clarke's heart exploded with questions. She wanted to ask about the newly-crowned Commander, but that would give her away as a foreigner (as if she hadn't done enough already). She would simply have to see for herself, as Lady had decided the three of them would attend the feast together.

This meant having a bath in the stream.

It was the busiest Clarke had ever seen it. Supposedly, everybody was doing the same thing. Scrubbing their skin raw of imperfections, sins and secrets in order to present themselves to the Commander tonight. Clarke's heart throbbed in her chest. There was no chance it could be Lexa—she must've conked out long enough for her to somehow be overthrown, or succeeded. She wondered if it was Aden. If it _was_ , then the gods were good—Aden would see to some fit lodgings for her in Polis, and she enjoyed the boy's company immensely.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that. If she had to be in any time in the universe, she could not exist in a time where Lexa had already passed without a goodbye. It wasn't  _fair_ , but she had gotten quite the impression that the universe didn't care for handing her a fair life. Clarke tried to stay calm and think ahead. Maybe this was some sort of re-coronation. Maybe she was stuck in some strange time-loop. Constantly seeing Lexa crowned Commander for the rest of her life was much preferable to her death.

"Do you—" Clarke cleared her throat, red-faced. Lady turned around. "Do you have, sort of..." She stared at the beautiful girl in front of her, her dark skin smooth and silky. The dress she wore was modest, but it showed off the gorgeous curve of her back. Her Mama was clearly pleased by the design, but Clarke was quite sure she would be unable to pull that off. "Do you have any—trousers? Tunics?"

"I can fetch you my riding gear," Lady said kindly, "I assume you do not like dresses?"

"Harder to run in them," Clarke muttered.

"We won't be _running_ anywhere," Lady laughed, "unless you plan on taking a dancing partner and performing some high kicks."

Nonetheless, Lady fetched her some new clothes. The whole situation seemed off to her. Lady did not question her, but she spoke oddly. Almost too formally. Even Aden didn't speak Old English quite like Lady did—clipped, polite, with a sparkle of a smile in her eye. Any man would fall in love with her, but Clarke wondered if Lady even knew it. She was sure a man would fall in love with the mere curve of her back.

"You mustn't eat," Lady advised, when she caught Clarke eyeing the basket of bread hungrily, later on. "There shall be a great feast—the greatest there's ever been—and you'll have to eat a _lot_."

She wanted to ask: _how do you know it'll be the greatest ever been?_

_Who are you, in Polis? Are you nobility?_

Did nobility exist in Polis? Clarke racked her brains. She was sure it didn't—but Lady behaved like a Princess, which meant there was now a King in Polis, or she just didn't have a fucking clue what was going on.

She betted on the latter.

 

* * *

 

Entering through the gates of Polis sent shivers down her spine. She'd done it a thousand times, but the daunting drawbridge, the wall-walk, the turrets and the boisterous life exploding within the city would always overwhelm her. Against Lady's word, Clarke had insisted she knew her way around the city, and wandered off.

Unsure of why she expected change, she noted not much _had_. Some stuff seemed to have been knocked down—not even to rubble, but just to...nothing. There had been an arthouse she wanted to hole up inside until her head stopped spinning, but no matter how many times she circled the city, she could not find it.

In the streets, a jolly man played on the cittern, bowing his head to passer-bys. Soon, he was joined by a fiery-headed lady who belted out some song that everyone in the crowd bar Clarke knew. It was difficult to not get in the spirit though. It took Clarke all of five minutes and two goblets of heady Polisian wine to get her stomping and singing along with the crowd, a broad grin splitting her face.

She wore a long-sleeved tunic to cover her lack of clan tattoos, but it did not seem to matter as much. Nobody asked her to reveal anything, and nobody seemed to care. Even if they did, Clarke suspected they'd be too drunk to remember come morning.

It took a while for Lady to find her, and when she did, she motioned urgently towards the Square.

"Gold!" she yelled, jerking her head so fast Clarke thought it'd fall off. "Are you coming?"

"Where to?"

"The feast," Lady said. "You're not passing down the opportunity for some suckling pig, are you?"

That _did_ sound tempting. Clarke patted down on her grumbling belly and let hunger win. So she allowed Lady to tug (hard) on her hand, catching her disapproving Mama's eye out of the corner of her eye. _Yes, I'm going to the feast, so make another sour face for me please. I beg you._ She hoped the sarcasm would leak from her eyeballs. Ever since Lady's good deed of nursing Clarke back to health—which she was indebted to Lady for—Mama had been distrusting from day one.

" _Heda_ ," Lady said loudly, walking Clarke into the middle of the Square. Amidst the sea of high-backed chairs and important-looking people, Clarke was lost. She could see Bryce of the Water People, his red beard not quite as long as she'd remembered. There were less white hairs, too. There was a different Commander seated behind the Boat People's sigil, and Roanok was missing the scar across his face from when he'd fought...

"Lady," Clarke hissed, staring at the floor, "Who—are—you--?"

"Gold speaks," Lady said, amused. "I'm pleased. I got it out of you in the end."

"Is this some weird trip?"

"Costia," the newly-crowned Commander of the Coalition called out, a light-hearted smile on her face. The music did not stop playing around them. "What are you playing at now?"

The—

"Newly-crowned?" Clarke blurted out incredulously, finally lifting her gaze. _Oh my God._ Lexa quirked an eyebrow at her, the goblet of wine halfway to her lips settling back down on the table again.

"She's my guest, _Heda_ ," Costia— _the Costia_ , Clarke thought, wanting to slap herself—said.

"Very well." Lexa relaxed instantly. Clarke frowned. Was she always so lenient on those she loved dearly? _Not a criticism,_ she thought instantly, just in case karma bit her in the ass. So she was clearly having some sort of very detailed, very real nightmare. "One day, Costia, you'll have to stop housing everyone." Lexa was grave in her tone, and Costia grinned at her. Lexa turned to Clarke. "To which clan do you plead your allegiance to?"

"Er..." Clarke scratched the back of her neck, feeling inexplicably awkward. About three days ago, she'd been in bed with a version of Lexa three or four years older than the newly-crowned victor seated before her. She did not want to ask when she'd get the tattoo down her back, and how badly she wanted her fingertips to burn down the path of her spine. She did not want to think about the fact that Costia would likely be doing that tonight. "I know the woods very well," she said meekly.

"She does not know," Costia said for her. "She may have been abandoned."

Clarke felt slightly defensive. "I caught a rabbit."

"Your imagination, Costia, is unrivalled as always," Titus spoke up, seated to the Commander's right. Everyone stiffened, including the jovial Costia, and she gripped onto Clarke's hand.

Costia's grip was vice-like. "Do not underestimate my educated guess for sheer fiction, _Fleimkepa_."

The friction between the duo was near unbearable. Lexa had to loudly instruct the musicians to carry on with some sort of jolly tune to drown out the insufferable silence. Costia held Titus' flat gaze, and Clarke admired her for it. If she thought Titus disliked _her_ , then he disliked Costia a great deal more.

Right here, right now, she wanted to confess the whole truth. She still had Lexa's sketch folded up in her (Costia's) inner jacket. She had all of Lexa's history memorised. She knew if Lexa sent Costia away, Costia would die. She knew how to defeat the Red Fog—quicker, and more efficiently. She knew of the weapons available to them in Mount Weather. She knew in time they would have to evacuate TonDC.

And as much as Clarke wanted to spill the beans now, and show Lexa her drawings now, she _couldn't_. She absent-mindedly wondered where Lincoln was. If the others had yet to fall from the Ark, then she was somehow living pre-Skaikru. _Probably a good thing_.

But this was Lexa's feast. Lexa's celebration. Lexa's new horizon: she would bring peace to this land, and as much as Clarke wanted to stop some atrocities, it would have to be one victory at a time. Small victories. She knew, via simple quantum physics, that she could not distinctly change the past without horrible consequences. Yet it comforted her somewhat that Lexa was still the Commander, and she did not seem cruel. She could not simply have travelled back in time. That would only mean present-day Lexa would remember her, and that would probably frazzle the Commander's mind.

Costia and Clarke stood in the middle of the Square for an agonisingly long moment. Lexa's eyes differed hugely. Fondness softened the hard edges when she gazed at Costia; deep suspicion mixed with curiosity and intrigue laced the way she looked at Clarke. But there was no standoffish behaviour. Instead, Lexa finished her goblet of wine and relented.

"Bryce," she called, and the Water Commander bent over the table to look at her. "You'll take Indra for a dance, won't you? I rather dislike keeping my trusted General seated the entire feast. It should be one of enjoyment."

Indra bristled. "I enjoy being by your side, _Heda_."

"And I enjoy watching you dance," Lexa said mischievously.

Indra glowered at her— _cheeky sod_ , Clarke thought with a muffled laugh—as she clambered over the table with Bryce. Joining the other couples in the Square, the gigantic Bryce took Indra in his arms as they performed a clumsy waltz of sorts. Out of sheer disbelief (oh, she would have _so much ammunition_ on Indra) she tripped over her own feet as Lexa invited them to sit either side of her.

Costia slid next to Lexa easily, pecking her cheek affectionately. Clarke sat awkwardly to the left, picking at some of the food, and mainly drinking the wine. Lexa made small conversation with her, her eyes glistening with endless questions she daren't test the crisp night sky with. Costia mostly remained quiet, courteously chatting to the various clan leaders and laughing with Anya. Lexa's chit-chat with Clarke remained purely at surface-level, and Clarke suspected this was simply because Costia could hear every word. A few times, Lexa overstepped and Costia would hush her. Clarke gritted her teeth. The day would come where Lexa would get to question Clarke alone, and Clarke didn't like the prickliness of this Lexa who didn't know her. _This isn't my Lexa._

This was Lexa's feast night, and she was sure she did not want to ruin it with strange questions. Instead, Clarke—as much as it frustrated her to watch Lexa caress Costia in such a way—answered politely, giving nothing away.

Lexa laughed whenever Costia made a joke— _really_ laughed. She'd tip her head back, exposing her suitably striking throat. Costia spoke highly of Lexa's garb, modest but protective—and handsome, too. Lexa tore a small slice of lemon cake in half and tossed it into the air, snorting when it missed both of them. They bumped noses, and Lexa stole a kiss.

They were so happy that Clarke wanted to be sick.

Nausea from jealousy, or nausea simply because this was PDA on a level of extremity...she didn't know.

But she did have a thought. _I'm going to save Costia's life_ , she thought firmly. _Nia can bite my ass_.


End file.
